A Single Stroke
by fac-me-cocleario-vomere
Summary: Painter!AU. Francis is a painter, and decides to try something new. Drabblefic, FrUK.
1. Chapter 1

A Single Stroke

Francis was an artist; a painter, to be exact.

Francis painted people. Women, mostly. What else held more beauty, he reasoned, than the form of a woman? Seductive, innocent, haughty and everything in between, their portraits lined his studio, waiting to be auctioned off or displayed.

Today, though, Francis was working on something new. Something different. Something… _personal._

Francis was painting a _man_.

A man who, in Francis' opinion, outshone every woman he had ever seen.

Sitting with the back of the easel to the door, to prevent any… unwelcome disturbances (the painting was _private_, after all), he began to work.

His brush sketched out the man's delicate features on the canvas, and a form began to take shape. The man was indeed beautiful, in a strange, almost pixie-like way, with messy blonde hair, pale skin and a pair of impossible green eyes that stared out from under a ridiculously huge set of eyebrows.

Lost in a daydream, Francis continued to paint, until footsteps and a hammering at his door brought him back to reality. He had just enough time to cover the portrait with another, half-finished one before the door slammed open and a blonde-haired man burst in and began yelling about deadlines and art gallery showings and _have you finished that one of Miss Zwingli yet, she needs it by tomorrow_, and Francis, used to his agent's frequent panics, just smiled and guided him out of the room, because it wouldn't do to have Arthur discover his portrait, at least not yet.

He made sure to insult Arthur's abnormally huge eyebrows at least once on the way to the kitchen. Insults were what the man thrived on, after all (that and tea), and red, particularly the red Arthur's face was turning, suited him quite well.

Night-before-school-nerves+no sleep+Sherlock Holmes soundtrack=what the fuck did I just write. I really really need to start on at least ONE of the four multichapter fics I have planned, but for some reason I'm stuck in a rut. A rut filled with drabbles. HELP.

Anyway, enjoy this retarded drabble encouraged by a mutant nuclear plot bunny.

If you haven't already heard Romani Holiday (Antonius Remix) by Hans Zimmerman, you should.


	2. Chapter 2

Francis tried. He really did.

But one painting turned into two, and two into many, and soon there was a veritable _mountain_ of portraits stashed behind his wardrobe, all of his irritable agent, and he eventually had to give up and accept the fact that the crush he had on the other man had turned into something akin to infatuation, and something had to be done.

And because he was fairly sure agent-artist relationships were disallowed in his particular line of work (he painted _women_, after all, and as such was almost _obligated_ to flirt and/or sleep with them), there was really only one thing left to do. So he turned to pushing the other man away, irritating him endlessly (and groping him incessantly; he had a reputation to live up to, after all), until Arthur snapped and stormed out, shouting that he quit, and that it was a wonder he had been able to put up with 'the stupid frog' at all, much less on a daily basis.

And the agency sent another employee, a quiet young man by the name of Kiku, who somehow found the stash of paintings behind his closet –he should really get a better hiding spot-, andgave him a Look, the kind that says _I know what you're up to_, before excusing himself for the rest of the week, muttering things that sounded vaguely like _Elizaveta_ and _video cameras._ He wasn't sure what the CEO and wife of the agency's head had to do with video cameras, but it didn't sound too good.

And then Arthur was back in his kitchen, mumbling about _blackmail_ this and _bloody bitch_ that and _why does that Kiku boy hate me so much_, and it was like nothing had ever happened, except for Francis wanting to pin him up against a wall and kiss him senseless every time Arthur looked at him, because absence does, indeed, make the heart grow fonder, and the infatuation had mutated again, and was now some kind of love-slash-lust hybrid, and it was getting stronger by the day.

But he didn't, because, Arthur would probably punch him and leave, and all he would have left would be the ever-growing pile of portraits under his bed.

I don't like this chapter. It doesn't flow right, for some reason. And I use a lot of commas and 'and's, for some reason.

Anyway, for all you Aussies out there, I wanna see a show of hands. How many people wore the British flag on Australia Day? *waves hand* We need to get a group of about 100 strong (safety in numbers, yeah?) and walk around the city next Australia Day wearing British flags as capes.

This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Suga Bee, who pointed out to me that the story wasn't finished yet. *shrugs* I didn't see it, myself, but there you have it. The Sherlock Holmes soundtrack has invaded my sleep now. I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY. 8I


	3. Chapter 3

Francis doesn't know when it happened, but he's in love. A stalkerish, borderline-obsessive kind of love, but it's love nevertheless, and he's starting to worry. And as he shoves another painting into the already-full space underneath his bed, he tells himself _one more, there's room for one more, Arthur will never look under there anyway_.

But, as is the way of the universe, Arthur finds them the very next day; trips over a corner as he goes looking for the secret stash of fags he _knows_ Francis has and falls flat on his face. Francis watches as Arthur pulls out painting after painting, as he straightens up and walks toward him, and Francis braces himself for the punch he knows is coming, because this is how it ends, this is how it _has_ to end, this is the way of the universe.

And then Arthur is kissing him, and Francis takes a moment to mentally give the universe the finger before Arthur does something wonderful with his tongue and Francis's brain decides that it _cannot_, in fact, think with two heads at the same time and ceases all thought processes beyond _where did I put the lube_ and _I fucking hate skinny jeans_.

And later, much later, Francis will extricate himself from the messy tangle of limbs and sheets on his bed, and he'll gather up the paintings on the floor, and he'll burn them, because who needs a painting when the real thing is currently sleeping in your bed? (He'll keep a few, though, just in case.)

And as he walks back through the kitchen, he'll pretend not to notice the reddish-brown stains on the floor, or the cameras hidden around the house, or even the muffled squealing coming from the closet, because he figures he owes it to Elizabeth, and quite possibly Kiku too.

But for now, he simply hugs Arthur a little tighter, and falls asleep.

**I think my writing is getting worse.**


End file.
